Compassion and Ecstasy (1014 words)

 

Devakipuram is a small place, not quite a village, yet not quite a town either. It had schools and a college, a government hospital, a railway station, and a bus stand. But what made the place truly special was the famous Krishna temple that stood at its very heart.

The presiding deity Krishna there was believed to be a Varaprasadi, one who readily granted the sincere prayers of devotees. Yet the temple was never unbearably crowded. It owned considerable property and was financially self-sufficient, so its affairs were conducted without difficulty.

The temple trustee, Narayana Chettiar, was a man of impeccable character. He was honest, disciplined, and never took the wrong path. The priest, too, performed his duties with deep faith and devotion.

But let us come to the story.

In a street adjoining the temple lived an elderly woman known to everyone as Sengamalam Paatti. She lived with her son and came to the temple every morning without fail. She and the priest knew each other well.

One night, at around eight o’clock, she received a phone call from Bengaluru.

Her only daughter, Kanaka, had fallen and suffered a severe blow to the head. She was unconscious and was undergoing tests in the ICU. Her son-in-law had called to tell her the frightening news.

The old woman was shattered.

Her hands and feet seemed to lose all strength. Before the temple closed for the night, she hurried there to pray to the Lord.

The sanctum was empty.

The priest was nowhere to be seen.

Overcome with distress, she stood before the closed inner shrine and cried out:

“What kind of trial is this, Lord? Krishna… Narayana… Please save my daughter! I came to perform an archana for her!”

At that very moment, the door of the sanctum opened from within, and the priest stepped out.

“When did you come?” he asked. “There was some oil spilt inside, so I was cleaning it. Shall I perform an archana? For whom? Sri Vatsa gotra? What is her name?”

The old woman froze.

How does he know the gotra?

“It is for my daughter Kanaka, Pushyam star ” she said hurriedly. “She fell and hit her head very badly. She is unconscious and cannot speak. She has two small children. Please do it quickly. I came in such a panic that I brought nothing with me.”

“Never mind,” he said.

And he began the archana.

After a while, he said, “I am going to perform the deepa aradhana now. Pray with all your heart.”

He circled the camphor flame before the Lord three times.

“Did you have a good darshan?” he asked.

Then, with a mischievous smile, he added, “Now look at this as well.”

And he circled the flame before his own face.

The old woman let out a sudden little giggle.

“What a strange and funny man you are?” she said. “Thank you so much. I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from my heart.”

The priest placed a leaf cup (dhonnai) filled with (kalkandu) rock sugar in her hands.

“By the grace of the Lord, your daughter will regain consciousness tomorrow morning and begin speaking normally. It is late now. I have to close the temple. Go home at once,” he said, hurrying her along.

The old woman had taken barely four steps away from the sanctum when the priest suddenly entered, rushing from outside.

“Please forgive me,” he said. “I was overcome by an urgent need to relieve myself. I have poured a bucket of water from the well on my head and have come back in fresh clothes.

The old woman stared at him.

A strange fear crept into her heart.

Who was the man who had just performed the archana? And who was this man standing before her now?

They looked exactly alike.

Her head began to spin.

“Who are you?” she cried. “And who was the person who performed the archana inside? I don’t understand anything! Oh, Lord… Krishna!”

“What are you talking about?” the priest said. “I am the only priest here. There is no one else. I closed the sanctum and came out. Come, let us go inside and see.”

He entered the sanctum.

“There is no one here,” he said. Then he looked at her. “Did you bring the rock sugar?”

The old woman stared at him in disbelief.

“What is happening here? This is like some kind of magic! Where is that elderly man? I came here in such a hurry that I came empty-handed!”

“There is no rock sugar in the shrine here,” the priest said. “There is only turmeric powder, kumkum, sandalwood paste, and (sambrani) incense. You are an elderly woman. Nevertheless, how can I believe that you saw someone else inside?”

 “Why would I lie?” she demanded. “Look properly!”

The priest searched the sanctum carefully.

“Yes…” he said slowly. “You are right. There are seven or eight pieces of rock sugar scattered on the floor.”

He paused.

“But still…”

“Oh, no! What is this insinuation?”  the old woman cried.

“Krishna… Narayana… If what I have said is true, please tell him Yourself!”

The instant she uttered those words, the bell inside the sanctum began to ring on its own.

The oil lamps suddenly flared brightly.

And all at once, the entire sanctum filled with the powerful fragrance of incense.

The priest collapsed to the floor.

He looked up at the Lord, tears streaming down his face.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he sobbed. “For twenty years I have performed lakhs of archana rituals and countless abhishekams with devotion and sincerity. Yet I have never been blessed with such grace. I have never received such a divine darshan…”

His voice broke.

He wept with a mixture of wonder, humility, and deep regret.

Once again, the temple bell began to ring.

The lamps burned brighter.

The fragrance of incense spread everywhere.

The old woman and the priest stood transfixed, their bodies covered in goosebumps, gazing at the Lord.

And in that sacred moment, both of them were overcome by paravasam, a state of divine ecstasy beyond words.

 

A Day for Double Celebration (1427 words)

“I am Deepa, studying in Class Six, and I wish to narrate an incident that happened almost every day.

It was around seven in the evening, and my father was due home at any moment. I was washing the vessels while my mother put the finishing touches to the dinner she had prepared. We wanted to complete the kitchen work before he came.

I had offered to wash the vessels, though she was reluctant to let me. She always became tense around that time, and not without reason. My father was an alcoholic and, when drunk—as he invariably was in the evenings—he became violent. He would beat my mother black and blue for no reason, venting on her all the frustrations he had suffered during the day. Then he would leave her bruised and sobbing on the floor, hurling profanities at her, gulp down the food she had prepared, spread himself on the sofa and fall asleep, snoring loudly.

It was a daily ritual that we dreaded but could do little to avoid.

Whenever I pleaded with my mother to leave him and move away, she would always say, “He is a good man when he is sober. He doesn’t know what he is doing when he is drunk.”

I heard the sound of his car. Soon, he was banging impatiently on the door. My mother hurried to open it. I hid behind the kitchen door, afraid of his drunken fury. I hated him intensely.

A resounding slap was followed by his angry shout.

“You slut! Why do you keep me waiting outside? Don’t you hear me banging on the door? Are you deaf?”

“Could you not wait for a few moments? I was in the kitchen making rasam and waiting for it to boil,” my mother pleaded, holding her burning cheek.

She knew he was completely drunk and dreaded the rage that was about to follow.

“How dare you talk back to me today? I will teach you a lesson you will never forget!” he roared.

He pulled off his belt and lashed at her mercilessly. She cringed in pain and begged him to stop. Finally, he stopped, kicked her and staggered towards the sofa.

I waited until he had fallen asleep before tiptoeing towards my mother. She was sobbing, more hurt by his inhuman behaviour than by the pain of his blows. I caressed her and asked her to come to her bedroom.

“He has fallen asleep without eating his dinner. You go to your room. I will join you soon. Don’t worry. This is nothing new,” my mother whispered.

“Don’t you have any self-respect? Why do you allow him to demean you like this? Who cares whether he eats his dinner or not?” I said angrily.

She patted my cheek with a faint smile and signalled me to go to my room.

I could not sleep for a long time. I kept thinking about how this cruel routine could ever be changed. The next day was my mother’s birthday. I wanted it to be a happy day for her, free from harsh words and violence.

Let me confess that, on the days when my father was particularly cruel to my mother, I sometimes wished, in my anger and hatred, that he were dead.

The next day at school, I sat alone on a bench, watching my classmates play. My thoughts were with my mother. I wanted to buy her a gift but had no money.

Suddenly, someone gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to see my teacher, Swarna Madam, smiling at me.

“Why aren’t you playing with the others? And why do you look so sad?” she asked.

Did I ever tell you how much I loved my teacher, Swarna Madam? I trusted her deeply and confided in her whenever things became unbearable at home. She knew my father’s name and where he worked. I also knew that her brother worked in the city police force, though I had never imagined that this fact would one day change our lives.

“Ma’am, today is my mother’s birthday. I have nothing to give her. But more than a gift, I want it to be a happy day for her, free from the daily scolding and beating. I shudder at the thought of that drunken monster coming home in the evening and hitting her,” I told her.

“No, Deepa,” she said gently. “You should not speak of your father like that. I do not like it at all. Did you say today is your mother’s birthday? Don’t worry. I hope your father comes home sober and is kind to your mother. Meet me before you go home. Now hurry to your class; the bell is ringing.”

When I met her after the evening bell, Swarna Madam hugged me.

“Don’t worry, Deepa. Your father will be nice to your mother today and, hopefully, hereafter. Here is a small bouquet, a token gift from both of us for your mother. Give her my regards and good wishes.”

It was only five when I reached home. The house was clean, and the air was fragrant with incense from the puja room. The sweet aroma of cardamom and saffron rose from the kheer my mother had prepared. She looked charming in her clean sari.

My father was not expected before seven, yet my mother kept pacing near the front door, waiting for him.

Then I heard a gentle tap on the door.

Who could it be at that hour, I wondered.

My mother hurried to open it, as was her wont. Her face suddenly lit up.

My father entered, singing the “Happy Birthday” tune, much to her delight and surprise. Behind him stood a man of his age in a police uniform.

“Meet my college mate, Asokan,” my father said. “I learnt only today that he is a senior police officer in our city. He happened to meet me at my office, much to my surprise, just as I was leaving. He insisted on coming home with me. I couldn’t shake him off and go to my usual haunt.”

He gave a sheepish smile.

Then he looked around and asked, “Where is little Deepa?”

I ran towards him from my corner, unable to believe what I was seeing.

“Deepa, I haven’t forgotten that today is your mother’s birthday. I got the hint from the banner you put up in the dining room—‘Happy Birthday!’” he said with a loud guffaw.

He handed two packets to my mother. One clearly contained a cake from a famous bakery. The contents of the other remained a mystery.

“Do you want to know how this buddy of mine found me after so many years?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

“It seems his sister works at your school. She knows where I work and is also aware that today is your mother’s birthday. Apparently, you have been telling your teacher every little thing about us and all that happens at home!”

“No, Appa,” I protested. “I don’t gossip with anyone. I only talk to my class teacher and answer the questions she asks me.”

“Is Swarna your class teacher?” his police friend asked.

I nodded.

Suddenly, I remembered that Swarna Madam had once told me that her brother worked in the city police force. Everything became clear.

Swarna Madam had quietly taken action. She had arranged for her brother to meet my father and, by a remarkable coincidence, he had turned out to be my father’s old college mate. Perhaps that unexpected meeting, the presence of someone my father respected and probably his strong advice, had made him pause and reconsider the life he was leading.

I now understood that Swarna Madam had not merely comforted me or given me a bouquet. She had taken my distress seriously and had found a way to bring help into our home.

I ran inside and began setting the table with the cake and candles. Then I brought out the bouquet I had kept hidden and placed it in the empty vase.

The house was ready for celebration.

My mother stood in an expensive new dress at the centre of it all, smiling through tears of happiness.

That day, I felt that we were celebrating for two reasons: my mother’s birthday and a day of love and peace without bitterness. But really, it seemed more than a double celebration.

Thanks to my dear Swarna Madam, it was the day Hope entered our home—a hope for love and harmony that would remain forever.”

The strange ways of destiny (803 words)

It was well past midnight.

Subodh sat alone in his tiny rented room, staring at the razor blade lying on the table. The silence around him was oppressive, broken only by the slow ticking of an old clock. He felt trapped beneath the crushing weight of despair. Every attempt he had made to improve his life had failed. No matter how hard he worked, misfortune seemed to follow him like a shadow.

He was the eldest son of a large family in a small village. Their meagre landholding had barely sustained them even in good times. Then the government acquired a portion of it for a private industry, leaving the family with almost nothing. Hunger had become a familiar guest in their home.

Subodh worked in the city for a modest salary and sent home whatever he could keeping the bare minimum for himself. It was never enough.

That evening he had received a desperate message: his father had been admitted to the hospital, and money was needed immediately. Subodh had nowhere to turn. When he approached his employer for an advance, he was not only refused but also humiliated. The employer accused him of neglecting his work and threatened to dismiss him.

That was the final blow. It seemed to Subodh that he had fallen into a bottomless pit from which there was no escape. Tomorrow promised only more suffering than today. For months he had fought against thoughts of ending his life, but now they seemed stronger than his will. Death appeared to be the only way to silence the pain.

He locked the door, picked up the blade, and sat motionless, trying to gather the courage to slit his wrists. It seemed to him the quietest, most peaceful way to die.

Then came a knock. He ignored it. The knocking grew louder, more urgent. Still, he remained silent.

Suddenly he heard the anguished cries of a woman outside.

“Please! Please open the door! My son is dying!”

Something in her voice pierced the darkness clouding his mind.

Without opening the door, he asked, “What happened?”

“I live next door,” she sobbed. “My husband isn’t home. My son is very sick. Please help me take him to the hospital.”

For a moment, Subodh forgot himself. He unlocked the door and followed her.

The boy lay unconscious, his breathing shallow. At that unearthly hour, not a single vehicle could be found. Subodh ran through deserted streets searching desperately until, some distance away, he finally found an auto-rickshaw.

The doctors rushed the boy into the emergency ward as soon as they reached the hospital.

Subodh waited outside with the anxious mother until nearly three in the morning. Only after the doctors assured them that the boy had survived the immediate danger did he quietly walk back to his room. Completely exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning, he went straight to his neighbour’s house.

“The doctors say he’ll be discharged this evening,” the woman said, her eyes brimming with gratitude.

Subodh smiled faintly. For the first time in many days, the darkness within him had begun to lift.

Later that afternoon, something unexpected happened. His employer called him into his office.

“I was in a terrible mood yesterday,” he admitted awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

He handed Subodh two thousand rupees and asked him to send it home

Subodh accepted the money with quiet disbelief. It was not much, but at that moment it felt like a lifeline.

That evening he visited the boy in the neighbouring home. The boy, about sixteen years old, struggled to his feet and bent down to touch Subodh’s feet.

“You saved my life,” he said, tears filling his eyes.

The boy confessed that he had failed his board examinations. Unable to bear the shame and convinced he had disappointed his parents beyond forgiveness, he had swallowed rat poison in a moment of despair.

“If you hadn’t taken me to the hospital,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t be alive today. You’ve shown me that one failure isn’t the end. I’ll study harder and pass next year.”

Subodh stood silent. A strange realisation dawned on him.

It was not he who had saved the boy. It was the boy who had saved him.

Only hours earlier, both of them had believed death was the only escape from their suffering. Yet fate, in its mysterious wisdom, had brought them together at the very edge of despair. In reaching out to save another life, Subodh had unknowingly rescued his own.

As he walked home beneath the fading evening sky, the world no longer seemed as dark as it had the night before. For the first time in a long while, tomorrow no longer frightened him. It held hope, something he had almost forgotten existed.

 

Silence is the most eloquent speech of love (714 words)

 

The view from the revolving restaurant atop the towering building was breathtakingly panoramic. Shalini and Shekhar, both in their twenties, were in high spirits as they leisurely shared a bowl of creamy pasta with mushrooms and roasted garlic. They were far more engrossed in each other’s company than in the meal, which remained largely unattended.

They giggled often, covering their mouths shyly as they spoke in hushed whispers, exchanging what could only have been sweet nothings. Newly married, perhaps by the look of them, they were possibly talking about their dreams for the future, her culinary adventures, or the home they hoped to build together. They might even have been discussing when to start a family and how they would balance careers with raising children. Whatever the subject, their conversation was filled with laughter, playful banter, and frequent moments of holding hands.

When Shekhar’s mobile phone rang and he turned away to answer it, Shalini’s gaze wandered across the restaurant. In a quiet corner opposite her sat an elderly couple.

The gentleman, probably in his late seventies, had neatly combed silver-white hair and wore corduroy trousers with a striped T-shirt. His wife, graceful in a blue silk sari, carried herself with quiet elegance. Shalini imagined she must have been a striking beauty in her young age. They sat together in silence.

A large masala dosa rested on their table, from which they ate slowly, watching each other. Their only visible movement was their left hands, gently intertwined throughout the meal.

Shalini found herself wondering how a couple could remain so silent when she and Shekhar had hardly stopped talking since they had arrived. Yet there appeared no sadness between them. They smiled softly at one another with an ease and grace that only years of companionship could bring.

A waiter approached their table carrying a bouquet of deep red roses. He placed it gently before them. Each time he returned, the old man handed him a small slip of paper.

Perhaps it is their wedding anniversary, Shalini thought. Maybe they are quietly celebrating while missing children who probably live abroad.

Still, she expected such an occasion to be marked with cheerful conversation, bouts of laughter, and celebration. Instead, there was a sacred stillness enveloping their table.

When Shekhar ended his call, Shalini shared her observations. He too found it unusual that the couple had hardly exchanged a word throughout the meal.

Having finished their dinner, they asked for the bill. The waiter arrived with the bill folder, and after Shekhar paid—leaving a generous tip—Shalini could no longer suppress her curiosity.

“Forgive my inquisitiveness,” she said. “I’m just curious. Is everything all right with the elderly couple in the opposite corner? I haven’t seen them speak to each other even once. Yet the bouquet of roses suggests they’re celebrating something happy.”

The waiter smiled.

“Madam, I have known them for many years. They come here often and always ask for my table. They are the most loving couple I have ever had the privilege to serve. Today is their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Their children live abroad, so they celebrate quietly by themselves.”

“I noticed the gentleman giving you little slips of paper whenever you came to their table,” Shalini said.

“Oh, those?” the waiter replied gently. “Those are simply the names of the dishes they wish to order.”

He paused before continuing.

“It is life’s cruel irony, Madam. The lady was born unable to speak, and the gentleman lost his hearing almost completely about five years ago. Yet they remain the most loving couple I have ever known. Possibly they communicate through handwritten slips in their home”

The words lingered in Shalini’s mind.

She remembered the tenderness with which they had held each other’s hands, the warmth of their smiles, and the serenity that surrounded them. Behind their silence lay a lifetime of shared joys, hardships, sacrifices, and unwavering loyalty.

No words passed between them. No spoken conversation was possible. No elaborate gestures were needed. Their love had long ago learned a language beyond speech.

As Shalini and Shekhar walked past their table on the way out, they instinctively paused, bowed their heads ever so slightly, and smiled in silent admiration.

For some hearts, silence is the most eloquent speech of love.

 

 

Beyond the Debt (558 words)

Every evening, after closing his small business in town, Ramu walked the two kms back to his village. The bus route was longer, and after eight p.m the buses stopped running altogether.

This stretch he used was short, lonely and dreaded. On one side lay an old burial ground where funeral pyres often smouldered into the night. There were no streetlights, only the pale glow of the moon on fortunate evenings. Though not a timid man, Ramu would quicken his steps as he passed the place, his lips moving in silent prayer.

Often, he had the uncanny feeling that someone was walking close behind him. As a boy, he had been warned never to turn around or answer strange voices on lonely roads at night. So, he would walk faster, his heart pounding, clutching the little book of God’s thousand names that he carried in his pocket like a shield.

At times, he glimpsed shadowy forms near the burial ground—figures draped in white, standing motionless or gliding silently through the darkness. They never approached him, but they were enough to make him wish he had started for home much earlier.

One evening, heavy rain lashed the countryside. By the time Ramu left town, the sky was black and a fine drizzle still hung in the air. The path was slippery, and he moved cautiously, praying more fervently than ever.

Then he saw him. Standing a little ahead was Govind.

Ramu stopped in his tracks.

Govind had died in a terrible road accident a few months earlier.

The two men had been friends since childhood. They had walked this road together countless times, laughing, talking and comforting each other through its eerie darkness. 

A few days before his death, Govind had borrowed ₹5,000 from Ramu. After the tragedy, Ramu had never mentioned the loan to Govind’s widow, unlike others who had recovered their money from her.

 Now, impossibly, Govind stood before him. The narrow wooden bridge across the swollen creek lay just ahead. The apparition stood at its entrance, waving his arms urgently, signalling Ramu to go back.

 Though fear gripped him, the familiar face of his friend steadied him.

“Govind,” he called softly, “why are you stopping me? We all miss you. Your wife and children still weep for you.”

The figure did not speak.

For a few moments, it remained perfectly still. Then it once again raised its hands, firmly directing him to turn back.

A strange feeling came over Ramu. Without understanding why, he decided to obey.

He set down the bundle he was carrying on a culvert, stepping away from the bridge.

At that very instant, a deafening crack and lightning split the night.

The wooden bridge gave way and crashed into the raging creek below.

Ramu stood frozen.

Slowly, before his astonished eyes, Govind’s figure faded into the darkness and disappeared.

Had he taken another step, he would have been swept away.

Long after the rain had ceased, Ramu remained there, staring into the night, hoping his friend would appear. He never did.

Taking the longer route home, Ramu finally reached his village and narrated the strange incident to his worried wife.

Then, with tears in his eyes, he said quietly, “What a noble friend Govind was. The money I lent him was a small debt. Tonight, he repaid by saving  my life.” 

 

 

 

The Smile that said everything (901 words)

Ramanathan was close to eighty. Age had bent his back a little, but not his spirit. His eyes could still spot a fallen pin, and his ears could catch even a whispered conversation in the next room. He had been blessed in life—three sons, three daughters, a comfortable home, enough savings to keep worries at bay, and a steady stream of children and grandchildren dropping in and out of the house.

His wife, Saroja, however, had begun to slow down. Long years of managing a household had finally caught up with her. She tired easily, and her knees troubled her with recurring pain. Ramanathan had fixed a maid who comes at 9 am to help her with the chores

Unfortunately, Ramanathan was more active, making constant requests to his wife.

“Saroja, where are my glasses?”

“Saroja, can you bring me some hot water?”

“Saroja, did you keep my newspaper somewhere?”

From morning till night, he called out to her frequently, adding to her frustration.

By seven every morning, he would usually have wandered into the kitchen at least ten times, asking whether the coffee was ready.

“Is the decoction done? How much longer would it take?”

 

But that morning, there were no footsteps, no questions, no complaints. The house felt strangely silent and empty.

Wondering whether he had overslept, Saroja walked into their room with coffee in a dabara and tumbler. He did not utter a word but gulped the coffee at one go.

Ramanathan again rested on the bed, staring at the ceiling and then at her.

“What happened today? Are you angry or what, or are you unwell? Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

No answer. He slowly turned and looked straight at her. Nothing else, even as she shook him. Fear gripped her heart.

“Mangala! Call the children at once!” she shouted.

Then she began muttering to herself.

“As if my headaches weren’t enough, now this old man has decided to lose his mind! Even when he was healthy, I could barely keep up with him. What new predicament is this?”

One by one, the children arrived.

The eldest son bent over him. “Appa! What’s all this drama so early in the morning? Say something.”

It was met with Silence. Thinking he could no longer hear, the son dropped a metal tumbler onto the floor.

Clang!

Immediately, Ramanathan turned toward the sound.

“Ah, he can hear!” everyone exclaimed.

But the old man simply looked at them with the same blank expression.

The youngest son came closer and asked gently.

“Appa, are you in pain? The doctor is coming. Just say one word. Everyone is worried.”

He continued to stare. Saroja began to cry.

“What will I do alone? Where will I go? Why is God testing me like this?”

The daughters-in-law quietly looked away.

The doctor arrived and examined him thoroughly. Everything seemed perfectly fine.

Finally, the doctor removed his spectacles and sighed. “I honestly don’t know what’s wrong. Let’s wait for a few days and observe.”

After he left, the daughters looked at their brothers.

“Amma can’t take care of Appa alone anymore. What do we do?”

The eldest son cleared his throat.

“I live in a two-bedroom flat. The children already share a room. Where is the space?”

The second son shook his head. “My in-laws are staying with us. You know the situation.”

Someone mentioned the youngest son in Mumbai only to invite a comment that he barely has room for himself.”

Their sisters sighed.

“I’ll have to ask my husband. It’s not easy. “The second one nodded in agreement.

The youngest said, “I live in a small rented accommodation on the second floor with no lift. If there is a compelling need, I am willing to consider moving here and take care of the parents.

 Silence filled the room. Nobody spoke

Then the eldest son spoke again. “Let the status quo continue. We will come daily by turn. I think we should meet a lawyer.”

Everyone looked at him.

“We don’t know if Appa has written a will. We should sort these things out. “The younger nodded thoughtfully.

Throughout the conversation, Ramanathan was simply looking at them silently.

Two days later, only his eight-year-old grandson sat beside him. Saroja had fallen asleep in the adjacent front hall

The little boy climbed onto the bed.

“Grandpa,” he whispered, “will you talk only to me? I like you very much.”

For the first time in days, the old man’s face softened.

He pulled the child close and kissed his forehead.

“What would you like to talk about?” he asked gently.

The boy nearly jumped off the bed.

“Grandpa! You can speak! But Amma told Auntie you’ve gone mad!”

“Shhh…” Ramanathan whispered, smiling. “Don’t tell anyone. Only now have I understood who everyone really is and their nature. Don’t worry. I will turn normal soon.”

Just then, Saroja walked in.

“I thought I heard someone talking.”

The boy quickly replied, “It was me, Grandma. I keep asking Grandpa questions, but he doesn’t answer at all.”

“My fate…” she sighed, tapping her forehead, as she left

The little boy turned toward his grandfather.

And there it was. A quiet smile with a mischievous wink!

Not the smile of a man who had lost his mind— but the smile of a man who had finally found the truth and an accomplice.